A Face in the Water
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: Something is lurking in the depths of Lake Michigan, and Carl Kolchak is determined to find out what it is.  But between dealing with Captain Rausch and considering a promising job offer, the reporter has quite a lot on his mind.
1. See Where They Have Gone

_Author's note: the characters aren't mine (Captain Rausch is a one-time character from "The Knightly Murders" episode), and the story is! This fic was largely inspired by the Genesis song "Ripples," as well as the basic concept of the Eight Instruments of the Sirens from _The Legend of Zelda: Link's Awakening_. Many thanks to LuckyLadybug for encouragement and plot help! I should also like to say that Tony's mumble of "Madre mia" was inspired by something similar he said in the Zombie episode._

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><p>Carl Kolchak grudgingly wrung out the jacket of his seersucker suit as he stood outside his yellow Mustang. Water from Lake Michigan dripped from the jacket, soaking into the ground.<p>

"Forget it, Carl," said the annoyed voice of Tony Vincenzo as he got into the passenger seat. "We're both soaked, and we may as well get back before we get hypothermia from staying out here, too."

"It's not that cold," Carl countered, but he got in the driver's seat. "Can you hand me the tape recorder, Tony? It's in the glove compartment."

"Kolchak…" the other man groaned, wincing. "I have to put up with this after everything I've been through?"

"My night was much worse than yours," Carl reminded him.

"And whose fault is that? If you had just stuck with _Julius Caesar_ like I had told you to, this wouldn't have… Oh, all right," Tony muttered, handing him the recorder. "Just try to keep it down, huh?"

Carl merely smirked in reply as he clicked it on. He held the recorder in one hand as he drove with the other.

"When you're dealing with beings of origins unlike those you are familiar with, you'll often come across something surprising—something that goes against all the stereotypes you've heard. Yes, sometimes, you end up learning that there is more to a monster than the tales you hear, and that, sometimes, all they want is a little help—even if, inadvertently, they end up causing too much trouble, and nearly kill you in the process."

"Oh, _Madre Mia_…"

"Tony!" Carl chided.

He rewound the tape to resume where he had left off.

"Do you really think you should be driving while talking into that?" Tony asked. "There's got to be a law against it somewhere!"

"Well, until I get pulled over, I'm going for it. …Unless you'd like to hold it so that I can have both hands on the wheel…"

"Just put it on top of the dashboard!"

"It'll fall off when I brake!"

"Oh, fine—I'll hold it," Tony grumbled. "Just get us back in one piece…"

"Great; now if you'd just hit 'record,' that'll do it…"

Tony obliged, albeit in exasperation, and Carl continued.

"My involvement in this affair was within little more than the last 48 hours. However, for some of the parties involved, it started much earlier…"

* * *

><p>"<em>February 24, 6:37 AM—fifty-year-old fisherman Frank Tully went boating out on Lake Michigan to catch the big one. But something caught him. No one knew exactly what had happened; they found his boat, rod, reel, and tackle box… but no Tully<em>.

"_February 28, 8:23 AM—another angler, Ralph Bryce, age 48, disappeared on the lake next. They didn't find anything of him this time; his boat had turned over, with no other visible signs that would have suggested that he had ever been there._

"_March 4, 7:07 PM—fishermen have been staying away from the lake after the first two disappearances, but two of them decided to try the buddy system—Kyle Raymond, age 52, and Edgar Wilton, age 49. Whatever system they had failed them, as did their seemingly good idea of trying to fish in the evening instead of the morning. Both of them vanished, their boats left behind, with their equipment untouched._

"_March 9, 3:25 PM. Boater Henry Nolan, age 55, decided to take a small ride on the lake on his sailboat. He hasn't made any decisions since; he hasn't been here to make them, having vanished just like the fishermen._

"_Even if no one wanted to admit it before, there was no denying it now—something was in Lake Michigan. Unfortunately, no one was sure what it was—there were no witnesses at the times of the disappearances…_

"…_At least, not until yesterday morning, March 14, at 7:48 AM. Despite the warnings and the disappearances, Chip Marvin, age 56, and his son, Roland, age 29, went fishing. What happened there was the break I needed to step in and enter this case, for it was the elder Mr. Marvin who had vanished, leaving the younger as the valuable witness I had been hoping to talk to. The only thing left would be to convince a certain Mr. Tony Vincenzo to give me the story in question_."

The task of convincing Tony had been more difficult than Carl had expected; Tony was adamant that Carl take the story on the local independent theatre's Ides of March performance of _Julius Caesar_.

"I want to go back to what we were trying before—try to present a more positive outlook on Chicago life," Tony said. "That's why I want you to cover this local theatrical group; they're supposed to be excellent."

"Positive outlook? With _Julius Caesar_? Tony, the man gets stabbed to death in the third act! There's nothing positive about that!" Carl protested. "Meanwhile, another person has disappeared on Lake Michigan, and you're worried about the Ides of March? That's tomorrow—why can't I just go cover this until the play tomorrow night?"

"Because I know the way your mind works, Carl," Tony said. "You'll get so caught up with those disappearing people, you'll either completely forget about the play or send Miss Emily in your place!"

Carl folded his arms, a bemused expression on his face.

_What can I say, Tony? You've got me pegged_.

"And that's why I want you with a clear mind for tomorrow night," Tony went on. "Here is your ticket. I want to see you there at 8:00 tomorrow evening."

"If that is what you so desire, then _Marc_ my words, Anthony," Carl teased, suppressing a smirk as Tony groaned at the pun. "I'll be there tomorrow night. But I'll be at Lake Michigan today, if you'll excuse me… And I'll be sure to keep a clear mind."

"Carl! _Carl_! I just said…!" Tony sputtered as his employee gave him a cheery wave as he departed out the door. "_Kolchak_!"

With a frustrated sigh, Tony sat back down at his desk.

"Why do I still keep you here, Carl?" he wondered aloud.

It was a question he hadn't quite been able to answer; anyone else would've fired Carl long ago; he had seen it happen in Las Vegas, and then in Seattle—that time, to the both of them.

He sighed, getting back to going over the articles that had already been submitted. He was already having his doubts about Carl showing up the next day, but he decided that he would cross that bridge when he got to it.

* * *

><p>"<em>Tony had made his position clear, and I set out to Lake Michigan with every intention of being at the theatre the following evening. But I had other things on my mind, too—like getting a chance to talk to Roland Marvin<em>.

"_Unfortunately, my talk with Mr. Vincenzo had put me a little bit behind schedule; I happened to arrive just as the police had finished addressing the assembled reporters. Though I was sure I hadn't missed much_."

Carl exited his yellow Mustang, scanning the area. He could see a worried-looking young man speaking to a police captain. The reporter knew that the young man had to be Roland Marvin, but Carl recognized the mustachioed captain all too well.

"Captain Rausch…" he muttered. "We meet again."

He was not at all happy to see him again; Carl was often quite resentful of Rausch's lazy tactics—the captain seemed to live by the law of minimal effort, preferring to use intimidation tactics on members of the press and other informants in order to further his investigations. Having a knack for getting into places he ought not to be and finding out information meant to be unknown, Carl was often the target of Rausch. Though the reporter had vowed that he would refuse to cave in to the crooked captain's threats of harsh interrogation methods, Carl was disgusted with himself for having broken that vow every single time so far. This time, he decided, would be different.

He also had to figure out how to speak to Roland Marvin without Rausch listening in. But first, it was time to test his luck and see how much he could pick up without saying anything at all.

Using the assembled people as shields to block himself from Rausch's view, Carl made his way to where Marvin and Rausch were talking, tape recorder in hand to pick up the conversation.

"Son, I want you to keep in mind that you're supposed to be giving me all the details," Rausch was saying. "It's the only way I can help you find your father."

"But that's just it, Captain," Marvin said. "I thought I heard singing, but it was very faint, like someone playing a radio far off. And that was when I heard the splash—my dad fell into the water."

"And he never resurfaced?"

"No, Sir. I dove in to look for him—pretty stupid, I suppose, given what had just happened, but I didn't see anyone down there. Of course, the water was murky at the time; I know I saw some large fish—I could tell by their tails. But… my dad had just vanished without a trace."

Rausch mulled over this for a moment.

"Sharks," he determined.

Carl fought the urge to slap his forehead. Sharks in Lake Michigan? Unless someone had pillaged the zoo and set them loose, he knew it couldn't be possible—one or two, maybe, but certainly not a whole bunch of them. There was something else in that lake—perhaps Lake Michigan's own Nessie; whatever it was had to be incredibly streamlined to move that fast. True, sharks were streamlined, but there hadn't been any report of missing sharks or water reptiles from zoos or aquariums—and if there had been cases, they surely would have been brought to light around the time of the first disappearance. Not to mention, the weather was cold; whatever was in that water couldn't be cold-blooded, like a shark or a reptile. That didn't leave much else…

And there was something else to ponder over. Why had the mysterious whatever-they-were taken only Chip Marvin while leaving Roland? That case on March 4th had reported two disappearances, so it was well within the creatures' power to take more than one person from the boat.

There was so much that didn't make sense…

Carl's thoughts were interrupted as he found himself shoved roughly from his hiding place, out into the open and in full view of Rausch by one of his men, who looked none too happy to be seeing him again.

"Carl Kolchak…" he said, glaring at him. "We meet again."

"Funny—I had just muttered the same thing about you earlier," Carl countered, keeping his voice calm.

Rausch just grunted, his eyes narrowing.

"If that's your way of saying that this is a small world, then I agree," Carl said, deciding that he may as well milk whatever little enjoyment he could out of the situation. "Though I highly doubt that a suit of armor is involves in it this time."

The captain's mustache twitched.

"How much do you know?" he inquired.

"I just got here, Sir," Carl said. "If you doubt my word, then you might like to confirm it with my editor, Mr. Anthony Vincenzo, who had kept me from coming here on account of an assignment concerning a performance of _Julius Caesar_ tomorrow."

"I know that it is pointless to doubt your word with the confidence in your voice," Rausch replied.

"Come again?"

"I can tell by the sound of a man's voice when he is telling the truth, and when he is not," Rausch insisted.

"I'll bet you can…" Carl said, trying not to roll his eyes.

"One just has to look for subtle clues in body language. For instance, you didn't believe my last statement."

"Well, _bravo_," Carl said. "It's nice to know that I'm being so well understood by you, Rausch. It certainly takes my mind off of the possibility of a failure of communication. Those aren't fun."

"Neither is this," Rausch said, suddenly gripping the reporter's arm with a force that was clearly a threat to twist it, prompting Roland Marvin to stare on in some amount of shock and disbelief. "And now, I am going to say something that I hope _you_ understand, Kolchak. I am in no mood to deal with you. Should you end up crossing me during the course of my investigation, I will make life very miserable for you. Can I assume that you have no doubts about _those_ words?"

Carl stared into the taller captain's eyes, refusing to let himself be intimidated. He was through being bullied by Rausch.

"No doubts at all," he said, his voice barely refraining from a hiss of disdain.

Satisfied, Rausch released him.

"I would leave now, Kolchak, before you accidentally end up crossing me right off the bat," he said.

He ushered Marvin along, leaving Carl to stare after him as he massaged his arm.

"_Et tu_, Brute?" he muttered.

This was going to be far more difficult that he first realized.


	2. A Man May Change

Author's note: I haven't mentioned this yet, so I will now; my fics are meant to be taking place in the present day, much like the Moonstone comics, but, unlike the comics, the fics still take place at the INS in Chicago. Also, the two characters introduced in this chapter—Gorpley and Wainwright—aren't mine; they're a guest appearance from another fandom. Lastly, many thanks to Marie1964 for information on Navy Pier!

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><p>"<em>I was still smarting from my encounter with Captain Rausch; I knew that my best bet was to avoid him. However, I wasn't about to get off of this case like he wanted—I was through with being intimidated by him, which was more than could be said for the other journalists present, who had gathered around Rausch after he had finished questioning the witness<em>.

"_I knew that I wasn't about to get any information standing there in that crowd, and, sure enough, Rausch's statement was more of a warning for all of us journalists that we were better off staying away from the lake. Quite a few of them looked scared, and for good reason; I knew from experience that the captain was willing to resort to ways of persuasion—the kind that didn't leave any physical marks, but could damage you all the same_.

"_So, while Rausch was busy intimidating the other journalists, I chose the moment to slip free from the crowd and approach the witness, Roland Marvin. It was a decision that would prove to be most fateful, though—like all fateful decisions, I suppose—I had no idea of it at the time_."

Roland looked up as Carl approached him as he sat by himself, surprised to see the same journalist again.

"You're that reporter that the captain chased off!" he said. "Hey, I don't think you should be sticking around—Captain Rausch wouldn't like it if he saw you talking to me."

"Oh, don't let old Rausch fool you; we've got a rock-solid relationship," Carl said, with a wave of his hand. "Tell me about what happened here."

"Well, it's like I told the captain—my dad and I were fishing, and he just… fell overboard and vanished! And when I went in to save him, all I saw were large fish tails in the water…" The young man shuddered, but then looked back to Carl. "…Are you sure it's okay for me to be telling you this?"

"Sure, sure," the reporter said. "Now, if I remember correctly, you also mentioned something about hearing music?"

"Was that even important? Captain Rausch didn't think so. But, like I told him, I heard someone singing… Actually, several voices singing, very faintly—all women, without accompaniment."

"So, you heard some sort of female acapella group?" Carl asked. "And you said it was on the radio?"

"Yeah, it had to be a radio, based on how faint it was," the young man said. "But it didn't sound like it was coming from the shore after all, now that I think about it. If anything, it sounded like it had been coming from _in_ the water, but that can't be. Maybe it was from a nearby boat? It was really foggy, and I guess there could've easily been another boat that I just didn't see."

"A nearby boat…?" Carl mused. "But you would've heard a motor or oars if there had been another boat, wouldn't you? If anything, you would've at least heard the wake of the boat on the water…"

Roland shrugged, helplessly.

"And forgive me for being a bit presumptuous with this question, but do you think there was anyone out there who would've wanted to kidnap your father?"

"No, not at all!" the young man insisted. "Dad never had any enemies! Captain Rausch is convinced that Dad's line caught a large fish, or possibly even a shark, and he was pulled overboard by the catch."

Carl frowned. Something didn't seem right.

"Your dad had been fishing for a long time before today, hadn't he?"

"For years—since he was a kid."

"Then why didn't he let go of the pole after whatever he caught pulled him overboard?"

"Huh?"

"Something doesn't add up," Carl said. "Call me crazy, but I think that music you heard might be a clue as to your father's disappearance."

Roland gave him a blank stare.

"Okay, you're crazy," he said. "Are you saying that someone sang a song that made him fall into the water and disappear? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"

It was Carl's turn to shrug.

"Well, I'm not making any final statements, but it's probably a good idea to leave all possibilities open."

"_Now_ I know why Captain Rausch wanted you to leave," the young man muttered.

Carl shrugged again.

"Well, if you'd rather believe that there were displaced sharks involved, be my guest…"

Roland gave Carl a glowering look, prompting the reporter to acknowledge that he had worn out his welcome. Carl took his leave, and the young man seemed only too happy to see him finally go.

Carl walked over towards the edge of Navy Pier, mulling over what he had to work with: the next victim in a long line of weird disappearances from on the lake, a witness who had seen large fish tails and had heard strange singing, and an angler who had apparently not known enough to let go of the rod and reel?

There was a story in it somewhere…

Carl was soon distracted, however, by someone addressing him.

"Kolchak? Carl Kolchak?"

The reporter looked up, seeing another man with a press badge heading towards him.

"Are you Carl Kolchak of the Independent News Service?"

Carl gave the man a bemused look and then sardonically took out his own press badge and looked at it, as though confirming his identity.

"Yes, I would say that I am," he said, suppressing a smirk.

The man held out his own press badge in return.

"Sam Gorpley, _Chicago Chronicle_."

"Oh?" Carl asked, wondering why a reporter from such a prestigious paper wished to talk to him.

"I couldn't help but notice how you stood up to Captain Rausch back there—and then going to talk to that witness even after he had threatened you. The rest of the press started clearing out of here once he told us that he would arrest anyone who didn't leave the Lake Michigan area within fifteen minutes on the grounds of interfering with the investigation."

"When did he say that?"

"When you had walked away to speak to the witness while he was talking to the rest of is," Gorpley said, with a smirk. "Did you find out anything?"

So that was it; the _Chronicle_ wanted in on the information he had found.

Carl merely responded with another shrug of his shoulders.

"Well, you know… same old, same old…"

Gorpley's eyebrows arched.

"Oh, I'm not trying to steal your story; in fact, I was going to say—"

"You know what? Hold that thought," Carl said, not about to hand any information that he had obtained—meager as it was. "I need to call my boss."

He headed further down the pier, grudgingly pulling out his phone. He had never thought too much of the concept of being able to be reached no matter where in the world he was, at any hour of the day—how else was he supposed to pretend that he never got Tony's messages while busy investigating somewhere?

Well, the phone was proving to be useful now, he admitted, as he called Tony's office.

"INS, Vincenzo speaking…"

"Tony, it's me! I did a little looking around the lake, and you wouldn't believe what I found out—"

"You're right—I won't believe it," Tony grumbled. "Carl, please tell me you're on your way back here."

"Sorry, Tony; I'm at Navy Pier. Listen, I was talking to the witness—the son of the victim who had vanished—and he said that he heard music—women singing—just before the victim vanished. And then he saw large fish tails in the water."

"So, he heard a radio while his old man was pulled away when he snagged a big one," Tony said. "What's your point, Carl? No one is going to be interested in some old coot being pulled overboard by a fish!"

In the background, Carl could hear Miss Emily's distinct, shrill voice calling, "_Excuse_ me?"

Carl chuckled to himself; Tony would have to talk himself out of that one once this call was over…

"That's just it, Tony," he went on. "The official story is that he was pulled overboard by a large fish, but it doesn't make sense. How could he disappear so quickly after that? And why would an experienced angler make such a fatal error like not letting go, anyway? And what about the music coming from the water? There's a story in here somewhere, Tony, and something tells me that the answer lies deeper than anyone else realizes!"

"_No_, Carl!" Tony bellowed, causing the reporter to hold the phone some distance from his ear. "I _knew_ this was going to happen if you went up there to the lake! Carl, your assigned story is the production of _Julius Caesar_ tomorrow night—_please_ don't make me have to remind you again!"

"Oh, come on, Tony! Think of it as getting two articles for the price of one! You'll get your _Julius Caesar_ article tomorrow night, as you requested, and, as a bonus, you'll get an exposé on the creatures that dwell in the depths of Lake Michigan!"

"Oh, sure—creatures that sing before they cart off unsuspecting fishermen!" Tony said, rolling his eyes. "Is that what you're trying to tell me, Carl? Because, if it is, that's a new level of the bizarre—even for you! At least none of your other stories featured singing monsters! What's next after this one—a creature that sings, dances, and puts on a one-man show before it attacks?"

Carl knew that Tony was being sarcastic, but he could resist continuing down that line.

Oh, weren't you listening to what I said, Tony? The witness heard _women_ singing. That's plural! You can't exactly have a group of women doing a one-man show, now can you?"

"Carl… please do us both a favor. Come back here before someone thinks you're crazy! …Or is it already too late for that?"

"Yeah, it kind of is… The witness didn't appreciate my theory of the music being behind his father's disappearance."

"You think?" Tony asked, sardonically. "Carl, just get back here before anything else happens!"

"But, Tony," Carl protested. "What else could possibly happen, huh? I've already had my run-in with Rausch; the other shoe has just about dropped—"

"_KOLCHAK_!"

"…Okay, _now_ the other shoe has dropped. All right; you win, Mr. Vincenzo. Your prodigal son is returning home," Carl declared, silently snickering as Tony groaned in derision at his metaphor.

The reporter then sighed to himself as Tony disconnected the call. He placed his phone in his pocket and looked out across the lake. It seemed serene and nondescript now, but it was a chilling thought, knowing that something in its depths had claimed six men.

How many more would be taken before whatever responsible was finally satisfied? Or was "whatever" satisfied already? Was that why the younger fisherman had been spared? Or had there been another reason for that?

Carl's thoughts came to a sudden halt as a flash appeared in his peripheral vision—something in the water had reflected the sunlight for a split-second. It was, most likely, a brightly-colored fish, but, on the other hand…

"One of those mysterious creatures…" he murmured, hoping it would surface again due to the activity going on at the surface and on the shore. However, he knew it was doubtful.

"Kolchak!" Gorpley called, heading over to him. "There you are! I was trying to tell you—I'm not trying to steal your story! My boss… Well, I gave him your number; he'll tell you himself; I think you'll find it worth your while. And I guess I'll catch you later."

"It'll have to be much later—my boss has officially requested my presence, and I probably should see to that," Carl said, still not buying into it. He threw one last look over his shoulder at the water, but saw nothing. "Mr. Vincenzo's patience seems to be wearing thin—even more than usual."

Gorpley just smirked.

"Glad I don't work for him," he said, as Carl started to head off. "I hear that the guy turns down half of the articles submitted to him!"

"Oh, that's just a vicious rumor," Carl said. "It only averages out that way because he turns down five of my articles for every six that I write."

Gorpley actually snarked out loud at this, and Carl decided to leave him to his cackling, heading for his Mustang and driving back towards the INS.

It did bother him a little that Tony rejected so many of his articles, even if Carl could understand why. It was clear that after the fiasco in Seattle, Tony just didn't want to take the risk of printing those kinds of stories. But it wasn't so much the refusal to publish them as it was Tony's apparent reluctance to believe him.

_When will you believe me, Tony?_ Carl thought. _What do I have to do to prove to you that this sort of stuff really happens? When will you see that I'm not the crazy nut that everyone thinks I am—including you?_

Carl was jerked from his thoughts by his cell phone going off again. With a sigh, he pulled his car over to the curb and hit the call accept button without even bothering to see who was calling—he assumed that it was Tony calling back.

"Look, Tony, I said I'll be right there—you've got to give me a little time to drive back without going over the speed limits and rear-ending traffic!"

He trailed off as a voice he did not recognize replied him.

"This isn't Vincenzo, Kolchak. This is R. T. Wainwright, editor-in-chief of the _Chicago Chronicle_."

Carl just blinked, wondering if they really were that desperate to get their hands on the information he had obtained.

"I believe you recently spoke with one of my employees—Gorpley," Wainwright continued.

"Yeah, that's right," Carl said. "He wasn't very clear about why exactly you wanted to talk to me, but he did say that you would explain, and that I would find it to my interest."

"That's right, Kolchak. I want to buy the story that you are currently working on and print it in the _Chronicle_—the Lake Michigan disappearances. And that's not all—"

"Wait… _you_ want to publish my story?"

"Yes. I understand that your take on a lot of stories can get… mmm, well, interesting, shall we say? And Gorpley has told me about your pluck—how you aren't afraid to get the facts and put the word out, even with these unique story angles. But your impassable roadblock seems to be Vincenzo—he didn't even want you on this story, did he? That's why I'm offering to buy it; if Vincenzo won't publish it, then I will. You have my word of honor on that."

Carl just stared straight ahead, hardly believing his ears. An editor from a prestigious newspaper was genuinely interested in an article of his, even with the odd angle?

"But… I don't even work for you!" Carl pointed out. "Why would you be interested in one of my stories, anyway?"

"Well, I'm hoping we might possibly change the current situation of you not working for me."

"You want to hire me?" Carl almost yelled.

"Yes, I do," Wainwright answered. "I'm looking for a new investigative reporter to join my staff—ours recently retired, and we've been forced to have some of the other members of the staff try to fill that role, with limited success; quite frankly, none of them seem to have that drive or zeal that you seem to possess. And that is why I am extending this invitation to you."

"It's not that I'm ungrateful—because I am, and flattered, too—but I am also curious…" Carl said, still convinced that this was too good to be true. "How is it that you know about my drive and my zeal when the majority of the investigative articles I write are never published?"

There was an awkward silence down the line, prompting Carl's eyebrows to arch, slightly.

"Your reputation precedes you, Kolchak," Wainwright said, at last. "My reporters have seen the aggressive stance you take at the press conferences, bringing up possibilities that you aren't afraid to address—even if it means that people think you're a little crazy. And Gorpley told me about how you refused to be intimidated by Captain Rausch just a little while ago. That's exactly the kind of investigative reporter that I'm looking for."

"Uh-huh…" Carl said, still not fully sold.

Wainwright could sense it in his voice, and he tried again, this time, ready to place all of his cards on the table.

"How about this, Kolchak? I've got a moment free right now… Why not meet me in my office at the _Chronicle_, and I'll give you all of the details of the job that will be waiting for you, should you choose to accept it?"

"Well, I'm actually due back at the INS for a meeting with Mr. Vincenzo," Carl said, checking his watch. He could always come up with some sort of bluff to later explain to Tony why he was late, if it came to that. "But I can probably squeeze in a quick confab with you first."

"I'll be looking forward to it," Wainwright said. "I think you will find that I can offer you far more than Vincenzo ever could."

Carl mulled over these words as he said goodbye and drove towards the _Chronicle_.

Well, it wasn't as though Tony had offered him nothing—if anything, Tony had been the one person keeping Carl employed all this time—sometimes at the risk of Tony's own job security, as Seattle had proved. But Carl was anxious to have a chance to get the word out about some of the odder happenings in Chicago—which was something that he and Tony would never see eye to eye on.

And then there was the whole prestige the _Chronicle_ had to offer—a prestige that promised a bigger paycheck. The chance to write what he wanted and get those stories published… An editor who would be fully behind his every endeavor… No arguments over what he could write about or where he could go…

Carl chuckled.

_I'm not one to make snap judgments_, he thought to himself. _But if this job offer really is on the level, then I'm afraid it just might be _arrivederci, _Mr. Vincenzo_. _Your prodigal son might be leaving again, after all. But I guess that's one less headache a lower blood pressure for you, right?_

He sighed to himself.

_Funny… This morning, I was thinking that the most interesting thing in town was what was going on at the lake. But it looks as though something far more interesting has come along_.


	3. Close the Book

"_I'm only human. How could I not be tempted by the prospect of such a high-paying job, complete with the respect of my peers and the promise of getting my stories published, no matter how bizarre they were? As such, it was around 11:35 in the morning when I made the detour and arrived at the headquarters of the_ Chicago Chronicle. _I wasn't exactly sure where Mr. Wainwright's office was, and when I arrived at the paper's nerve center to inquire about its location, I found myself on the receiving end of an unexpected, warm reception_…"

"Hello, Mr. Kolchak!" a young man in a brightly-colored vest exclaimed, hugging him. Based on his accent, Carl concluded that he was from somewhere in the Mediterranean, but the hug had taken him by surprise. "Mr. Wainwright said that you would be coming here; he has told us all about how you write the amazing stories that your editor won't publish—"

Another young man quickly pulled him away from the embrace.

"Leave him alone; he's here for an interview with Mr. Wainwright—not you," he muttered, annoyed. He looked back at Carl, apologizing. "You have to forgive him; that's how he greets everyone…"

Carl just waved him off, though he was still surprised and amused by the greeting.

"No problem," he said. "Well, there _is_ one problem; I can't seem to find Mr. Wainwright's office…"

"Oh, it's the next flight of stairs up, at the end of the hall," the Mediterranean man offered. "I can show you the way—"

"I'll take him there, Bartokomous," Gorpley said, shooing the younger men off.

"Actually, I think I can find the way there myself after all," Carl said, still convinced that there was a chance that Gorpley wanted the information he had picked up.

As he headed to Wainwright's office, Carl took a little time to notice how flawless everything seemed to be. The floors shined and the walls shimmered with a coat of good paint—nothing at all like the drab, wooden floors and old, faded walls of the INS; when he was feeling particularly snarky, Carl would often make a comment about how the Board of Health recommended them to avoid leaning on the INS building's walls to avoid lead poisoning from the old paint.

A control panel on the wall Carl passed controlled the central heating and cooling for the _Chronicle_ building, revealing the temperature to be a perfect 68 degrees. Back at the INS, the central heating and air conditioning never worked; he and the others had to bring in space heaters in the winter and fans in the summer—the latter inevitably blowing papers all over the room at least once a day, if not more.

There was no train rumbling by to halt any conversation at the _Chronicle_. Office space was generous. And, most of all, a large number of people read the _Chronicle_—people who would read his stories if he did decide to take the job.

_A guy could get used to this_, he said to himself.

Wainwright's door was opened, and he looked up as Carl approached and cleared his throat to signal his presence.

"Ah, Kolchak, come in! Sit down; make yourself comfortable. Just let me know if you're hungry; I can have someone run to the vending machine and get you something."

"I'm good," Carl insisted, as he sat down in the chair across from Wainwright's desk. "I understand that you were going to discuss the details of this job?"

"Ah, yes," Wainwright said, leaning back on his chair and lacing his fingers together. "Tell me, Kolchak… How much does Vincenzo pay you?"

"Well…" Carl said, shrugging. "The INS isn't exactly a huge paper; we're a wire service. And it's not as though I'm homeless and starving…"

He trailed off as he realized that he probably _would've_ been homeless and starving had Tony not hired him in the first place.

"Alright, so you're living within your means," Wainwright said. "But how would you like to have this as a starting salary?"

He wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Carl. The redhead's eyebrows arched in sheer surprise.

"…That's a _starting_ salary?" he asked.

"It's negotiable; I can go higher. A reporter of your caliber deserves that, and more," Wainwright said. "I can promise you that in writing if you desire. Would you like to know what the salary cap would be?"

"I think I can imagine," Carl said. "But I still don't understand why you're going through so much trouble to convince me to work for you."

"It's like I told you over the phone; you are an amazing reporter, and I understand that your talents are not appreciated. Take the Robert Palmer incident, for example—you put yourself in a lot of danger just to get the truth—"

"How did you know about that?" Carl asked, his eyes narrowing. "Tony never published my article!" He knew that all too well, having seen his editor crumple it up at throw it away unceremoniously.

Wainwright froze, caught, but he cleared his throat.

"Well, Kolchak, I'm sure you know that investigative journalism sometimes requires practices that may come across as slightly sneaky…"

"What did you do—bug Tony's office?"

"Of course not—that's not sneaky, that's out-and-out immoral!" Wainwright said. "It just so happens that my previous investigative journalist knew all the loopholes—like how trash put out on the curb does not constitute private property."

"You raided the INS trash cans to get my stories?" Carl asked, flummoxed.

"I'm sure you've done the same during your investigations," Wainwright insisted.

"I never stole stories from the trash!" Carl insisted. Granted, he had looked though trash cans for evidence, but never to steal stories!

"We never stole anything from your stories, Kolchak," Wainwright assured him. "You can look through our entire archives to make sure of it."

"But why would you want my stories?" Carl asked, still unable to comprehend why.

"Well," Wainwright said. "I was in Seattle some time ago, and I came across something most interesting—a limited edition of a Seattle paper that featured a story on a killer. However, the killer was, according to this story, 144 years old."

"And you believed it?"

"Obviously, I did; otherwise, you wouldn't be having this conversation here with me, now would you?"

Carl shrugged.

"And I suppose the rest of your former reporter's trash can treasure hunting dug up more stories of mine that never made it?" Carl asked.

"It did," Wainwright admitted. "You have seen some… truly incredible things, Kolchak. I don't know why Vincenzo thinks that no one would want to read them; just because _he_ wouldn't believe in a ghost if it came up to him and said, '_Boo_,' it doesn't mean that everyone else thinks the same way!"

"Well… Tony is no fool; he's just cautious and careful as to what he decides to print," Carl said.

"Ah, you see, Kolchak, this is why I am eager to have you work for me," Wainwright said, smiling. "You defend Vincenzo when he doesn't even appreciate you. I can only imagine the loyalty you'll have to a place like this. So, then… When would you like to start? Of course, I understand that you'll need to give your two weeks' notice to Vincenzo; shall we say… two weeks from today?"

"Well, I think that may be just a little bit hasty," Carl said. "I'll have to give this some thought."

"You do? But this is what you've wanted, isn't it? And what has Vincenzo ever done for you?"

Carl bit his lip. Well, it wasn't New York, but working for a prestigious daily paper was, indeed, what he wanted.

So why was he not jumping at the chance?

"It just seems a bit too good to be true," he said, at last, though it wasn't the truth.

"Well, if you need some time for it to sink in, be my guest," Wainwright said, handing him his business card. "Just give me a call when you've decided to accept, and you can get started as soon as Vincenzo sets you free from that little paper that only a handful of people read."

_He would have to say that_, Carl muttered to himself.

Nevertheless, he said his goodbyes to Wainwright and, as he headed back to his car and drove back to the INS, he had to admit that he was seriously considering taking the job.

The feeling only increased as he stepped inside the building and seeing the familiar, worn walls. His nose was twitching slightly—a sign that mildew had set in yet again.

"Carl?"

The redhead gave a start as Miss Emily addressed him.

"Carl, is something on your mind?"

She was uncanny in her ability to sense when something was bothering him—and sincere in her concern to help. If Carl did take that job at the _Chronicle_, he knew that he would indeed miss her.

"I'm fine, Miss Emily," he assured her, not wanting to worry her. "You go and have your lunch."

She nodded.

"Oh, and speaking of lunch," Emily said. "Mr. Vincenzo is getting a bit tired of waiting for you; he put off his lunch because you said you were going to speak to him."

Carl winced.

"Right…" he said. "I'll go see His Majesty right now, then."

He took his leave of Miss Emily and headed straight for Tony's office.

"Behold, O Captain and King, I have returned!"

"What took so long?" Tony demanded. "Please tell me the police didn't detain you _again_!"

"Actually, Tony, they didn't," Carl assured him. "I just… ran into a bit of traffic on the way back."

The editor's eyes narrowed. He had known Carl Kolchak long enough to sense when he was telling the truth, and when he was not. That was how he knew that all of the bizarre articles on monsters and demons were about things that Carl took very seriously; and it was also how he knew that Carl wasn't being entirely truthful as to why he was late.

Carl continued to look nonchalant, though his mind was on the proposed job at the _Chronicle_. It meant that he would never have to deal with Tony's endless inquiries, like he was doing now. Wainwright had seemed ready to give anything that Carl wanted on a silver platter; clearly, he saw an appeal in Carl's bizarre stories—one that Tony did not see, and would never see…

"_Kolchak_!"

Carl snapped back to reality.

"Yeah?"

"What is with you?"

"Oh, I was just thinking about the disappearance at the lake," Carl bluffed.

Tony was not convinced, but the mention of the lake caused him to roll his eyes again.

"Carl, just leave that lake alone," he instructed, handing Carl a book. "I want you to spend the rest of the day reading _Julius Caesar_ to prepare for when you see that show tomorrow!"

"I've read _Julius Caesar_ before," Carl assured him, placing the book back on Tony's desk. "I still remember being forced to memorize one of the soliloquies in high school."

"Really…?" Tony asked, dubious.

"_Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him_—"

"Alright, alright," Tony said. "But a refresher read wouldn't hurt!"

"Tony, relax! I am perfectly capable of working on this lake disappearance story without affecting tomorrow's review in any way. Anyway, let me tell you what I found out…"

"We went through that already," Tony said. "You said that the poor fisherman heard some strange singing, and that music somehow made him vanish!"

"I didn't say it was the music," Carl said. "But the music definitely has a role to play—"

"Carl, the man heard a radio. A _radio_!"

"How could he have heard a radio when he was out in the middle of the lake?" Carl countered.

"…Maybe some metal part of the boat collected the radio waves!" Tony said, after giving himself a moment to think about it. "There was once a documented case of a guy's metal bridgework in his mouth ending up collecting radio waves like that! If bridgework can do it, so can a boat!"

Carl stared at his employer in bemusement.

"You know, Vincenzo, just when I think you couldn't get into any deeper denial, you surprise me by proving yourself to be even more of a stubborn skeptic than I ever imagined. Why can't you accept _for once_ that there are some things that have no scientific explanation to them?"

Tony slammed his hands down on his desk.

"Then what, pray tell, is your explanation for all of this, if it isn't collected radio waves behind it all?"

Carl's face fell.

"I'm still working on that," he admitted. "I didn't get much time over there thanks to Captain Rausch and that phone call I got…" He trailed off.

"What phone call?" Tony asked, his eyebrows arching.

"Never mind, Tony; that's not important," Carl said, trying to steer the conversation back to the lake. "I'm guessing that Rausch will be gone after lunch; I'll head back after I get a bite to eat, too. Maybe then I can find some answers about that singing."

"_No_!" Tony ordered. "That's it, Carl; I'm putting my foot down here! I don't want you going back to the lake; just forget the whole thing!"

"Forget the whole thing? Tony, if I can figure this out, it might stop someone else from disappearing the next time they go up there!"

"May I remind you, Kolchak, that _I_ am the one who assigns the stories around here? And if I say that I want you to reread _Julius Caesar_ to prepare for your assigned story tomorrow, you'd better reread _Julius Caesar_!"

The two were now glaring daggers at each other. It was Carl who backed down—or seemed to.

"Alright, Vincenzo, you win," Carl said, picking up the book again. "I'll reread _Julius Caesar_. And wouldn't you know that the best reading spot can be found at Navy Pier? I'll let you know how it goes!"

"By the pier—!" Tony sputtered, as Carl dashed out of the office. "Kolchak, get back here! _Kolchak_!"

Carl smirked to himself. He had won again. Now he could continue with his quest.

But even in the midst of his victory, he couldn't help but ignore the voice in his head reminding him that if he took the job at the _Chronicle_, he wouldn't have to fight to get a story in the first place.

It would be nice to have free reign over the kinds of stories he wanted to, he realized. And with that would come more money than he would know what to do with…

"Off on another one of your wild monster chases, Kolchak?"

Carl snapped back to the present again, none too pleased to see Ron Updyke rolling his eyes at him.

"Does it matter?" the redhead asked, frowning.

"Yes, it does—I know that Mr. Vincenzo assigned you the _Julius Caesar_ review, and if you're too busy chasing after one of your crazy monster stories, it means that I'm going to be dumped with the responsibility of picking up the review. Tomorrow is supposed to be my day off, and I do not want to spend it being called back to work for a story you were supposed to be covering!"

Carl folded his arms, biting back most of what he wanted to say in his retort.

"Well, excuse me for inconveniencing the lives of the upper crust, Uptight," he said. "But I have every intention of attending that play."

"See that you do," Ron said.

Carl muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing at all," the redhead said, through gritted teeth.

Deciding to leave before Tony tracked him down and made him promise in writing that he wouldn't go to the lake, Carl decided to make his "escape."

He was almost grateful for the arguments he had just had with Tony and Ron; if anything, they had just put everything into perspective for him. Constantly butting heads with the both of them—though with Tony especially—just for a chance to follow a story of his choice that would likely be discarded by Tony anyway once it was finished was getting Carl absolutely nowhere fast. The sooner he got out of here and at the more pleasant environment of the _Chronicle_, the better.

On the other hand, maybe this would be the one time Tony would believe one of his stories if he could get solid proof that there was something about that mysterious music that the fishermen had heard. There was no point in dealing with Ron, he knew, but there were times that it seemed that Tony was almost convinced. Perhaps convincing him just once would be enough….

Ah, who was he trying to fool? Tony Vincenzo was just as stubborn in refusing to believe the supernatural as Carl was in trying to prove it. Why should this time be any different than the others?

As Carl's thoughts turned once again to the tempting offer of the _Chronicle_ job, with its well-kept building and promise of money and appreciation, it was becoming more and more of a no-brainer.

So why was he still reluctant to accept Wainwright's offer? Was it because Tony had kept him employed all this time when no one else would have? Did he really have a loyalty to him, as Wainwright had said? Was that why Carl had deliberately avoided the subject of the job offer, even when Tony had asked him what he had been thinking about?

He tried to shake the muddled thoughts from his head. It wasn't like him to be sentimental; any person with half a brain would have jumped at the job offer he had received. Tony himself wanted to move beyond mere editor of a wire service. That rationalization was enough for Carl.

Perhaps it was indeed time to leave the INS behind.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: the Shakespearean quote in this chapter is public domain. Also, Tony's mention about the case where a person's dental bridgework ended up acting like a radio is, in fact, a real story.<em>


	4. Gracefully Decline

Author's note: the song featured in this chapter is my creation entirely. It's actually more of a poem than a song, as I really don't have a melody in mind, but for the sake of the story, it's supposed to be a song_._

* * *

><p>"<em>I stopped to grab a quick lunch—to go; it's one of those rare times where I've actually felt grateful towards the invention of that thing they call 'fast food.' As I had hoped, Rausch had left the lake—presumably for lunch, as well<em>.

"_Unfortunately, I found out that I wasn't alone up there at the lake, as I had hoped. Mr. Gorpley from the_ Chronicle _was there—apparently under the direction of Wainwright. I guess his mission had been to butter me up further by buddying up on this assignment. No amount of explaining that I worked alone would do any good by this point. Somehow, I just knew his being here would end up getting in the way_.

"_There are times I hate it when I'm right_."

"What exactly are you looking for?" Gorpley asked.

Carl had a look on his face that clearly read, "_A way to get away from you_."

"I'll know when I see it," he said aloud.

Carl pulled out his camera and walked to the edge of the pier, looking at the momentarily calm waters of Lake Michigan. There didn't seem to be a sign of anything in the lake, other than a few fish.

"If the police weren't able to find any traces of those missing fishermen, do you really think you could?"

"I'm not looking for them," Carl said. "I'm looking for whatever it was that witness saw."

"The sharks? Just throw some old meat in there; they'll show up soon enough. I'm surprised no one's thought of it," Gorpley said.

Carl wasn't going to bother with trying to tell him that there were no sharks in the lake, and that it was just Rausch being lazy again.

"You look down that way," Carl instructed, hoping to get some time to think alone. "I'll look up here."

Gorpley shrugged, sensing that Carl didn't want to "buddy up" for this story as Wainwright had hoped. Deciding to give him a little distance for the moment, Gorpley did as Carl requested, looking around some distance away. He still wasn't sure what they were looking for, and couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.

Carl now scanned the lake from where he was standing.

"Alright, now it's just you and me," he said, quietly addressing the creatures. "Who are you…?"

He walked to the very edge of the pier, squinting as he attempted to see through the depths. He could see a faint, green light for a moment—it was gone the instant it had arrived. The reporter looked up, wondering if it was the sunlight refracting in the water, but that didn't seem right.

_Bioluminescence?_ he wondered. _But there isn't anything like that in Lake Michigan_….

It was a headscratcher, no doubt, but Carl was determined to find out what it was.

As he knelt down at the edge of the pier, hoping that the change in the angle of light would allow him to see better, he froze.

He could hear a voice—a female voice—singing.

"_O, ye who dwells upon the land,  
>Why, for water, do you harbor fears?<br>Why limit thyself to the sand?  
>Immerse thyself in Nature's tears!<em>

_Whether the lakes' whisper or the oceans' roar,  
>Come to us; your heart will soar!<br>Away from land, away from the shore,  
>In our arms forevermore!<em>"

Carl could only kneel where he was, his mouth agape. His thoughts seemed to be in a jumble as he heard the voice singing—he had reached for his tape recorder to capture the voice, but his hand had frozen halfway towards it, as though he couldn't move a muscle. His entire conscious thought was focused on that singing.

Where was it coming from? Who was singing it? And what was the deal with those lyrics? Those lyrics… so cold and haunting… and yet… so thoroughly captivating…

"_Come to us, at our behest,  
>O son of those who dwell on land.<br>Lose thyself in the waves' caress—  
>Come now, take us by the hand!<br>O dweller of land, do not resist.  
>Rest in Water's kind cocoon.<br>Woes of land will cease to persist  
>The more you listen to our tune.<em>

_Whether the lakes' whisper or the oceans' roar,  
>Come to us; your heart will soar!<br>Away from land, away from the shore,  
>In our arms forevermore!<em>"

It was then he saw it, appearing directly below where he was staring—two eyes, a nose, a mouth… a moving mouth—the voice he was hearing! And the green glow… it seemed to come from the jewelry she was wearing—earrings and a small diadem.

Their eyes locked, and Carl forgot about everything—_Julius Caesar_, the INS, the _Chronicle_, the story of the missing fishermen… His woes were indeed ceasing to persist; all that mattered now was that the face had to keep on singing.

"_Careworn and weary is the heart  
>Of a poor land-dweller such as ye;<br>All worries and fears indeed depart  
>Whether in lake or in ocean or in sea.<br>Bid farewell to land and port;  
>Do not lose this precious chance!<br>Join us now in Neptune's Court,  
>And forever, with us, ye shall dance!<em>

_Whether the lakes' whisper or the oceans' roar,_  
><em>Come to us; your heart will soar!<em>  
><em>Away from land, away from the shore,<em>  
><em>In our arms forevermore!<em>"

The call of his own name was more of an annoyance now than it had ever been before in his life.

"Kolchak? Hey, Kolchak!"

"Not now!" Carl yelled back, unable to take his eyes off of the face as she sang.

But the call persisted until he received a shove on the shoulder. Furious, Carl tore his gaze away from the face and looked up to see Gorpley staring down at him with an odd expression.

"What were you looking at?"

"I was looking right at…" Carl trailed off as he looked back at the water.

There was absolutely nothing there now, and the memory of what he had seen was slowly slipping from his consciousness.

"There was… something in there…" he said, as the memory of the face blurred to an obscure silhouette in the water. The memory of the song, too, was fading; he could no longer recall the melody and the haunting lyrics. "I thought I had heard something, too… Music… I heard music…"

Carl shook his head. What had just _happened_ to him? Why had he frozen up? And why couldn't he recall what he had just seen and heard?

…And why did he have an utterly irrational desire to just go into the water—even though he knew it would be cold?

"Look, will you forget about what you just saw or heard?" Gorpley said. "We need to get out of here!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I just saw a police car pull up—it looks like Captain Rausch is back to investigate some more."

"Terrific," Carl grumbled. "Look, you go on and get out of here; I want to take another look around."

Perhaps he wouldn't go into the water—at least not fully. Maybe just wade in up to his shins, or maybe even just stick his ear in….

He blinked. What was _wrong_ with him? He wasn't sure, and yet he knew he had to get another—and closer—look at the water.

"You sure about this, Kolchak?" Gorpley said.

"Absolutely," Carl insisted. He couldn't remember what it was he saw or heard—but he knew he desperately wanted to see and hear it again.

And this time, he would be ready. He had his camera in one hand and his tape recorder in the other. He was hoping that since whatever it was had vanished when Gorpley arrived, it would return as soon as Gorpley left.

"Okay…" Gorpley said, shrugging. He took another look around the lake, shaking his head. "But I still think you're wasting your time—you won't find anything here. If anything, your best bet might be to requisition diving equipment, if you know how to use that kind of stuff."

Carl grunted in frustration—unfortunately, he didn't know how to use it. But he would be willing to do almost anything for a chance to look underwater—and, subsequently, have a chance to get a much closer look at whatever it was he had seen and heard. It confirmed his suspicions that it was no radio that he and the fishermen had heard.

But it still didn't explain what on Earth it was. And the witness said he had seen more of them—more of those mysterious singing things…

He let out a relieved sigh when Gorpley at last left. He now knelt again at the edge of the pier, camera and recorder in hand.

"Alright, now it's just you and me again," he said, his gaze darting back and forth all over his line of vision. "Come on back; I've got some questions for you…"

She did not return. Carl did see a face in the water, but it was the reflection of Captain Rausch standing over his shoulder.

The reporter mentally cursed as Rausch motioned for him to stand up. He obeyed, and rolled his eyes to see Gorpley in the hands of Rausch's flunkies, as well—he had been caught trying to sneak away.

"You are in a restricted area, Kolchak," Rausch said, unceremoniously pulling the recorder and camera from Carl's hands and returning them only after confiscating the tape and film. "Because of the ongoing investigation into the disappearances, this area is off-limits to civilians and the press."

"There's nothing on there," Carl informed him, indicating the film and tape. He had swapped out a fresh roll of film and new audio cassette before heading for the lake. "But I would like a reimbursement for them, anyway. You know how much good film costs these days—?"

"If there is nothing on them, may I inquire as to what you were doing on your knees at the edge of the pier if not to take photographs?"

"I thought I saw something," Carl said. He wasn't going to mention the singing, nor exactly what it was he had seen—he wasn't sure he could, even if he had wanted to. He could recall nothing except a silhouette.

"I see…" Rausch said. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"I can't!" Carl protested. "It was there, and then it was gone—all I saw was a weird shape!"

Rausch suddenly gripped his arm again.

"Do you remember me telling you that things were going to get very unpleasant should you cross me?"

"I seem to recall something along those lines, yes…"

"You are interfering with the investigation by being in a restricted area!" Rausch said, able to voice his anger without raising his voice one iota.

…How ironic, considering Tony usually raised his voice to express worry…

"Well, my apologies," Carl said. "I thought that the First Amendment's whole 'freedom of the press' bit applied to Lake Michigan… You know, even though it's not land per se, it's still part of the—"

"If I see you here again, Kolchak, I will have you arrested for obstructing the investigation. And that goes for your accomplice, as well." Rausch shot a dark glance at Gorpley, who flinched.

"He's not my accomplice," Carl insisted. Then, lowering his voice, he added, "You're free to take him in right now, if you like…"

"I have nothing more to say to either of you," Rausch insisted, shoving Kolchak to where Gorpley was standing. "Remember my warning, Gentlemen."

"It's not easy to forget," Carl retorted. He ignored the snide looks from Rausch's crew as he and Gorpley walked back to where they had left their cars.

"What do you think?" Gorpley asked.

"I think I need to have another word with Tony," Carl said, placing the call.

Tony was still grousing from their last argument; he wasted no time in picking up exactly where he had left off.

"I thought I told you to stay away from the lake!" he immediately chided when Carl told him from where he was calling from. "At least tell me you've been reading _Julius Caesar_!"

"You can relax, Tony; Captain Rausch chased me off, and I'm coming back to the office—where I will, for your sake, read the play in front of you if it will settle your ulcer a little bit. But there really is something in the lake, Tony—I saw it. Well, I saw one of them, at least."

"Carl, how many times do we have to go through this?" Tony asked. Carl could tell he was wincing, even though he couldn't see him.

"I heard it, too, Tony—I heard the singing."

He was met with utter silence.

"Tony? Tony, are you still there?"

"You mean to tell me that you not only saw the monster, but you heard its song-and-dance routine?"

"It's not a monster!" Carl immediately countered. He blinked. Where was that coming from?

"Well, then what was it? What did it look like?"

"I… don't know. I thought I saw it, but… I can't remember…"

"Well, what was it singing?" Tony asked, sarcastically. "The blues? Opera? What?"

"I can't remember…" Carl said again, baffled at his own lack of memory. "I… I can't seem to recall that five-minute gap when I saw and heard… whatever it was."

"Well, isn't that convenient?" Tony asked, the eyeroll obvious in his voice alone.

"Tony… Tony, I know I don't have any solid evidence, but you have to believe me!" Carl pleaded. "Whatever it was did something to my head the same way it must have done to those fishermen—that's why they couldn't do something as simple as letting go of their fishing reels! And there are more of them!" He paused. "Tony…! Tony, come on! Whatever is in there… they're beautiful but dangerous! We have to get the word out; we have to warn people them! …Tony, are you listening to me?"

"Carl…" the weary voice replied. "Just get back here. Read the play. _Please_."

The reporter's shoulders slumped.

"Yes, Sir…" he said, with less sarcasm and more disappointment than he had intended.

"You know, Mr. Wainwright would believe you," Gorpley said, as Carl ended the call. "Just throwing that out there."

"I'll bet he would," Carl said, quietly.

But that wasn't what was bothering him. It wasn't as though he wanted the word out about the lake for any personal gain. Why didn't Tony see that? Why didn't Tony appreciate what Carl was trying to do?

"Score one more point for Wainwright," he quietly muttered, putting the phone away.

He ignored the smug look on Gorpley's face as he headed back to his Mustang and towards downtown.

As the hours ticked by, he seemed to be getting more and more reasons why he should take the job at the Chronicle. …Why, then, did he feel as though something was stopping him?

He sighed, unable to come up with an answer. Today just didn't seem to be his day for thinking.


	5. The Song has Found a Tale

"_I hated having to be forced to retreat at Rausch's orders, but with him herding me out, there was nothing left to do but figure out a new way of getting back to the lake to look around. However, it wasn't going to happen anytime for the rest of the day. But that didn't keep my mind off of it, even after I was back at good old INS, reading the play to satisfy Tony. And I think it was pretty obvious—even to him_."

"Carl, what _is_ that you're singing?" Tony asked at last. "Are you trying to drive me batty or something because I assigned you this review?"

"Singing?" Carl asked, looking up from the play. "I was singing?"

"Yeah, the same broken lyrics over and over under your breath—something about Neptune? It's bad enough that you've got an earworm you don't remember all the words to, but do you have to insert that earworm into the rest of our heads?"

Carl trailed off, looking at the far wall, but not actually seeing it.

"That must be the song I heard…" he said, quietly.

"Come again…?"

"The song, Tony!" the reporter exclaimed. "I told you I heard singing up at the lake, but that I couldn't remember it! …But, clearly, it's still there in my subconscious! It's like I told you—that music does something to your head. …I'll admit it; I haven't been able to get my mind off it—more than usual, I mean. And it's not even to find out what it is, but to just hear it again…"

Tony stared long and hard at his employee as he trailed off and got lost in his own thoughts again.

"Carl," he said, proceeding to shake him on the shoulder to bring him back to the present. "Carl, I think maybe you should call it a day."

"How's that? Oh, I'm almost halfway through rereading the play; I can finish it up, and then—"

"Forget the play, Carl; I'll take your word for it that you know it well enough," Tony insisted. "Look, I'm about to step outside to grab some dinner, anyway; why don't you come with me? I'll buy."

Carl could only stare at Tony now. One minute, he was screaming at him to read the play, and now he was trying to convince him not to. And yet, with Tony, it all seemed par for the course. It always seemed to be that way: come to work, argue with Tony, go out and investigate, come back, argue with Tony, go out again, come back, get invited to dinner…

Carl usually turned down Tony's meal offers, but, perhaps, he could make an exception this time…

"Sure, Tony," he said, putting the book back on his desk. "Where to?"

"There's a new bistro a few blocks from here," Tony said. "I was going to take a look at it."

"You still have your ear to the ground in regards to new eateries, I see," Carl mused, grabbing the jacket of his seersucker suit as he got up.

"Well, someone has to review all the new places, isn't that so?" Tony countered.

"Sure, Tony, sure…" the reported mused. "Interesting how you keep those stories for yourself."

"Very funny, Carl."

The banter continued as they exited the building. The evening was still dimly lit, but the light was quickly fading. Deciding to walk to this new bistro proved to be a fateful choice indeed, for Carl saw something unexpected as they passed an antique shop next to the restaurant.

It wasn't the antique shop itself that grabbed Carl's attention, but the display in front of the window; eight odd-looking instruments were on display on cloth-covered pedestals, with a marquee spread over the pedestals reading, "The Eight Instruments of the Sirens."

And, suddenly, everything clicked.

The music…

_A Siren Song_, Carl realized. _Or something like that. No wonder it messed with my head_…

"Carl?" Tony asked, looking back to see why Carl had stopped in his tracks.

"Huh? Oh, I'll be right with you in a minute, Tony. In fact, why don't you go in and order for the both of us? I just need to take a quick look in here."

"In there?" Tony asked, looking at the antique shop with some derision. "That overpriced junk shop?"

"Yeah; I'll meet you in the bistro in about five minutes. Just order something cheap but filling for me, okay? You know I've never been one for fine dining… Not that I could afford it," he said, adding the last part in an undertone.

Tony just shrugged, but headed inside the bistro anyway. Carl immediately made a beeline for the inside of the antique shop.

He supposed he had been expecting an elderly shop owner with deep knowledge about antiques waiting inside—at the very least, someone middle-aged; Carl was a bit surprised to see a relatively young lady in a t-shirt and jeans, absently blowing a bubble of bubble gum as she glanced in Carl's direction with an almost lazy look on her face. It was enough for Carl to do a double-take, making sure he was in the right place.

"Uh…" he said. "I was wondering if—"

"All prices are as marked," she said, with a wave of her hand, as though she wasn't really interested. "We're an antique shop, not Sotheby's."

"Oh, I'm not here to buy anything," Carl said.

"We're not a museum, either."

"No, no; it was just that I noticed those instruments you have on display—"

"Oh, those?" she asked, with a roll of her shadow-applied eyes. "I haven't had a chance to verify their authenticity yet; I've been trying to get ahold of the appraiser for a few weeks now—that's when I got them in here…"

"A few weeks…" Carl repeated. _Exactly when those lake disappearances started. Coincidence? Maybe… but, on the other hand_…

"Yeah," she said, crossing over to them to straighten out the marquee. "Even if they're fakes, I didn't lose anything; the guy practically begged me to take them off his hands. I think he would've paid me if I hadn't said anything. It made me think that they were stolen, at first, but I filed a report when I got them, and no one has come forth to claim them. So now I'm just thinking they're fakes."

"Uh-huh," Carl said, taking a closer look at them. "And just what are they supposed to _be_, anyway?"

They looked old enough, slightly faded by time, but they also looked functional—a small string instrument, a conch shell, a bell, a small harp, a small marimba, a triangle, a small, portable harmonium, and a small snare drum.

"I'm not sure," she said, picking up the harp in her hands and strumming it. It let out a sharp sound, despite being so old and little. "The guy who donated them said that they were called 'The Instruments of the Sirens,' and that he had acquired them on a trip to Europe."

"You don't say," Carl said.

"Yeah. He didn't tell me much—mentioned that they were supposed to belong to a group of hybrid siren-mermaids. Of course, who'd believe a story like that?"

"You'd be surprised. And you just received these a few weeks ago?"

"Yeah. I wasn't so sure I'd accept them, but after they seemed to be clean and he didn't offer me a thing for them, I decided to go ahead," she said, putting the harp back. "But the appraisers I've called say they've never heard about such instruments, which makes me think they're fakes. I'm having trouble finding one who'll come over here and bother with taking a look at them."

Carl now picked up the small marimba, and the voice from the lake returned to the back of his mind as he held it in his hands.

"You seem awfully interested in them, aren't you?" the shop owner asked, her eyebrows arched. "You want them that badly? Make me an offer."

"…Didn't you just say that the prices were as marked?"

"Yeah, but I haven't marked those down—can't, until I get them appraised. And it's looking as though I won't be able to without paying out of my own pocket. I don't think it's worth it, seeing as though I might be paying to hear that it's just a bunch of junk that someone passed off as antique."

"Yeah, that's a risk…" Carl said. "Well, I am interested in these instruments, so if you can put them on hold or something, I'd appreciate it."

The young lady absently blew another bubble gum bubble.

"To be honest, you're the first person who's even given them a second glance," she said. "Think it over, and if you decide that you really do want to buy, make me an offer. Here…"

She took one of the business cards from the counter and handed it to him.

"Oh, wait a second; I think I have a business card from the guy who donated the instrument," she said, going through a rolodex full of more cards. "Here it is!"

She handed him the card.

"'S. Giovanni, antiquities collector,'" Kolchak read. "And he's just across town, according to this address."

"This is one of his addresses," she said. "He has others, but he seems to have been spending time in Chicago since delivering the instruments. You'd better be quick about trying to get ahold of him, though; he might be heading back to one of his other residences now that he hasn't heard me having any receiver's remorse."

"Yeah… Yeah, thanks…" Carl said, pocketing the card. He took one more look at the Instruments. "I don't suppose Mr. Giovanni gave any reason as to why he so readily handed these over to you?"

"Don't you think I thought of that when he first showed up here with the offer?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Look, who knows? All I know is that they are clean and not stolen. What I don't know is whether or not they're genuine. Business hasn't been too good, so as long as they're clean, that's all I care about. Maybe Mr. Giovanni is testing me to see how I handle this so he can employ me or something. He seems like a good guy; he'd be a great boss. You know he invited me to discuss the deal over dinner?"

"Yeah, he sounds like he'd be a good boss if he's inviting you to dinner…" Carl trailed off, his eyes widening as he recalled the original reason why he had been on this block in the first place. "Boss… dinner…"

He facepalmed and placed the marimba back on its pedestal.

"Excuse me, Miss, but I really need to be next door right now. But you will hear from me again in regards to these instruments. Thanks for all of this," he said, hastily heading for the door.

"Whatever," she said. "You won't have much competition, believe me…" She trailed off as he left, leaning against the counter and resumed her bubble gum blowing, staring at the clock and waiting for closing time.

For her, this was the most activity the antique shop had seen in months.

* * *

><p>"Well," Tony said, acknowledging Carl as he approached. "It's about time. You mean you actually found something in that junkshop worth looking at?"<p>

"Yeah, I actually did," Carl said. The food on the plates was still warm, but he noticed that Tony hadn't started eating yet—he had been waiting for him. Carl bit his lip, but continued. "I was looking at some instruments they had for sale. They had a very interesting snare drum; you said you used to play the drums, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Tony said, now starting on his food. "I probably still could, if I picked it up again."

"That'd be something to see," Carl mused, still not able to picture his employer playing an instrument of any kind. He started on his food, but then decided to continue talking. "You know, Tony… Remember when were asking me earlier about what I thought was in the lake, and I said I was still working on it?"

Tony winced.

"Carl, just forget about the lake, huh?" he asked. "I know you don't take anything I say seriously, but for your own sake, just stay away from there. It's not worth it. If Rausch isn't going to bring you in for going back up there, that man-eating shark or whatever it is will take you _out_."

"I told you before that it's not a shark, Tony," Carl said, his voice serious. "I _know_ it's not; and I think I now have a theory as to what it is."

Tony gave him a glance.

"Well…?"

"…You probably don't want to hear it."

"Tell me anyway," Tony said, with a roll of his eyes. "You usually end up telling me at some point or another; let's just get this over with."

"Well…" Carl said, taking a sip from his water glass before starting. "It's about that music I was talking about."

"That song you were singing bits and pieces of back at work?"

"It must be. I thought it was strange that I couldn't remember it, yet I could sing it. And I'll be honest with you, Tony; if you told me to try singing it now, consciously, I couldn't recite a word of it." He hesitated, but then continued. "I told you it was messing with my head, and now I think I know why. …I think it was a Siren Song."

He could feel Tony's eyes on him as he took another sip of water; he was undoubtedly trying to absorb what he had just heard.

"Siren Song," Tony repeated after some time. "You mean like that story of Odysseus where he had himself tied to the mast of his boat so that he wouldn't be taken by the Sirens when he passed by them?"

"Yeah, that," Carl said. "Only there's a chance that they might be mermaid hybrids, too; I'm not sure how that works, but I guess anything's possible."

"And you think you heard one of them singing?"

"It's a theory… but it's the best one I have. Well, aside from your theory on the radio waves, that is…"

"And you never liked that theory," Tony said.

"I'm betting you don't think too much of mine, either."

"You'd win that bet. But I still think you should stay away from that lake, regardless of what it is."

"I figured you'd say that, too," Carl said. "Well… I guess I'll have to leave it alone for a little bit. I'll probably head to the library tomorrow morning and get ready for that review."

"You aren't going to be looking up mermaids at the library, are you?" Tony asked, wincing again.

"I plead the Fifth."

"_Carl_…"

"Look, Tony, this is an important story!" Carl protested. "If we can find out for certain what's in the lake, we might be able to save more people—especially if we find out how to stop those lethal ladies!"

"But why _you_?" Tony asked. "Of the millions of people in Chicago, why Carl Kolchak?"

"If I knew the answer to that, Sir, I would see to it that I could somehow lose this magnet of bizarre! These stories find _me_."

Tony massaged the bridge of his nose. That was true, at any rate—first Las Vegas, then Seattle, and now here…

"You know, I could give you an ultimatum and say that you'll be fired if you go anywhere near that lake again."

"That'd make my life a whole lot simpler," Carl said, without thinking. "I've got another…" He trailed off, catching himself. Tony still didn't know about Wainwright and the job offer, and this wasn't the time or the place to tell him about them.

"You've got another what?"

"I've got another idea that'll let me look into things from a different angle at the library," Carl bluffed. "Don't you worry, Tony; I'll get all that done, and I'll be there right on time for _Julius Caesar_."

Tony could only sigh.

Sensing that his boss desperately wanted to change the subject, Carl did so, all the while thinking about his plans for the next day in the back of his mind.

He could very well continue his investigation without going to the lake; there were the Sirens' Instruments to read up on, and, if possible, a phone call to this Mr. Giovanni, whoever he was.

Tony seemed to sense that Carl's mind was elsewhere, but he didn't say anything about it. No, he just decided that there was more to his employee's tale that he probably did not want to know.

At any rate, he knew that there was something that Carl was deliberately leaving out—which usually wasn't like him. Carl usually spared no details in the harrowing stories he all too often relayed.

Perhaps it was time for Tony to do a little investigating of his own.


	6. Sinking Fast

"_Sometimes, I wonder if Tony knows more than he lets on. Even on those old cases where he claimed that I was crazy, maybe he really did think about them… but just didn't tell me. At any rate, he knew that I was hiding something, and I could tell that he was genuinely concerned about it—guess he realized that I usually don't shut up about these things, so if I was hiding something, it meant that I was in some sort of trouble. Well, though the job offer certainly didn't constitute as trouble, I wasn't exactly free from trouble, either, as I would soon find out_.

"_After a fitful sleep, thinking about those instruments, I headed to the library first thing in the morning. Not wanting Tony to be able to track me down easily, I decided not to stop in at the office in the morning and hopes that he somehow forgot that I had told him last evening that I was going to the library._

"_Unfortunately, my search for information at the library was severely limited. All the books on mermaids and sirens didn't mention anything about magical instruments that somehow caused this siren-mermaid and her friends to appear and start adding humans to their collection of surface trinkets. No; there was a different legend at work here—one that didn't seem to be as well-known. It was up to me to find it before it was too late, but that was easier said than done_."

Carl sighed, staring at the books he had placed open on the table as he flipped through them all.

_Same old story_, he sighed to himself. _They sing, lure men to their doom, and no way to get rid of them. Just stuff up your ears so that you can't hear_-

"Kolchak! Hey, Kolchak!"

Several annoyed patrons of the library turned to glare at Sam Gorpley as he dashed through the quiet building, heading for him.

_Wish I had something to stuff my ears with now_… Kolchak mentally sighed as he put on a false smile to greet Gorpley with.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I was waiting outside by your car—it's the yellow Mustang, right? I thought I'd just hang out there until you finished up in here, but I overheard some radio chatter on your receiver, or whatever that was…"

"Will you just get to the point?" Carl asked.

"Captain Rausch is heading back up to the lake; there was another disappearance ten minutes ago, and this one's a doozy! It wasn't a fisherman or little sailboat rider this time—it was some rich guy, right off of his yacht, and his wife was there on the deck with him!"

Carl was on his feet at that.

_So Ariel's upping the ante, huh? Well, she's going to have to learn that she can't have her way all the time…_

"Wait a minute!" Gorpley said, following him out of the library. "I just wanted to let you know; you're not going back up there, are you?"

"That's where the story is, isn't it?" Carl said. "I was under the assumption that would be where responsible newsmen go."

"After what Captain Rausch said yesterday, you'd be crazy if you did go there!"

"Oh, Rausch is all talk," Carl lied. Deep down, he knew that the captain was dead serious. Though Gorpley could prove to be a useful decoy… "You want to come along?"

"You _are_ crazy. You wouldn't be able to pay me to go up there. And from what I understand, Vincenzo isn't paying you at all to go there."

"And before you start saying that Wainwright is, I'm aware of how he wants to buy my story," Carl sighed. "Why don't you go tell Wainwright what I'm doing? You know, let him know what his new investigative reporter will be getting into if he hires him."

"You're taking the job?"

"I didn't say that," Carl said, immediately. "I'm still considering it."

"If I had been in your situation, I'd have stopped considering it after five minutes and taken the job," Gorpley said.

Carl just muttered something under his breath and got into his car.

"You sure about this, Kolchak?"

"Absolutely. Now go be a good little scout and report this to Wainwright like you have for everything else I've been doing since yesterday."

Carl pulled out of the parking space and drove off, heading for the lake.

* * *

><p>"<em>It seemed as though I knew the shortcuts around the area far better than Rausch did, because I ended up arriving at the lake before he did, or maybe it was because I didn't have Gorpley hampering things. Either way, I was grateful for my headstart, in spite of however short it was<em>.

"_After making my way through the assembled group already there, waiting for Rausch, I could easily see the wife of the missing man, Mrs. Quint. I was quick to offer my sympathy and concern, which caused her to trust me enough to tell me what had happened_."

Mrs. Quint continued to wring the tear-soaked handkerchief in her hands as she relayed her tale.

"My husband was standing on the bow of the yacht," she said. "He was looking around for something—said he heard some strange music. Well, I thought he was hearing things; I hadn't heard a thing—"

"Was it a woman singing?" Carl asked, his eyes narrowing. "Or was it a group of women?"

"He didn't say," Mrs. Quint said. "I thought he was hearing something in the wind, but I turned my back for an instant, and…"

"He fell overboard?" the reporter prompted as she trailed off.

"I… I'm not sure he fell," she whispered, clutching her handkerchief with trembling hands. "He didn't yell out like he would've if he had fallen. It's like he… It's like he jumped overboard on his own, but… Why? He had a good job… We had a happy marriage… He had a smart head on his shoulders… I just don't understand…"

Carl shook his head, staring out across the vast expanse of the lake. Well, things were becoming very clear to him.

He looked back to Mrs. Quint again and offered his sympathies before wandering off on his own.

_Okay, so I have an idea of what's in the lake, causing disappearances. But how do I get rid of them?_

He took out the business card that he had received yesterday from the antique shop. Was there some link to how these siren-mermaid hybrids had suddenly showed up, and how this Mr. Giovanni had been so quick to get the Sirens' Instruments out of his possession? Well, he would just have to pay a visit to Mr. Giovanni and find out.

He pocketed the card again and turned to leave, but froze in his tracks. Above the din of the young policemen investigating the scene and Mrs. Quint once again explaining what had transpired, the reporter could hear a familiar voice and tune.

"_O, ye who dwells upon the land…"_

It was them—or one of them, at least. Carl couldn't quite tell if there was one or more singing at that particular moment, but he found himself not caring. And just as before, he had made a grab for his tape recorder to get some proof of the singing this time, but as the voice continued to sing, he (once again) forgot about it, his hand suspended in midair.

He turned towards the lake, walking to the edge of the pier. He knelt down at the edge, just as he had before, and there she was. But he could see more than just a face this time; brown hair framed her face, and some sort of garment—a tunic of some kind—was draped around her. And emerging from the bottom of the fabric was a long, fish-like tail.

It never once crossed the reporter's mind to take a picture with his camera. No; his thought process was more along the lines of "Where have you been all my life?" Despite the fact that this was most unlike him, Carl didn't even care that he was clearly not in his right mind as he leaned in closer and closer; he was dangerously close to having gravity take over and pull him the rest of the way. But that didn't cross his mind, either. This time, nothing would stop him from hearing that song again… from perhaps even talking to her… getting even closer… Yes, closer, still…

Well, almost nothing…

Carl's arms were suddenly seized and pulled behind him.

"What the…?" he stammered, tearing his gaze away from the singer beneath the water as he felt the all-too-familiar feeling of handcuffs closing around his wrists.

"Kolchak, you can't say that I didn't warn you of what would happen if we crossed paths again during the course of my investigation," he heard Rausch's voice say as he was roughly pulled to his feet. "Spencer, take him away."

"No, no, no!" Carl protested, as he was dragged away from pier. He looked back to the water, but, once again, she was gone, and the details of what she looked like and what she was singing were rapidly fading from his mind.

"Put him in the squad car and have Sonntag offer Mrs. Quint a ride to the station so that she can give her statement to me personally," Rausch went on, ignoring Carl as he cursed under his breath. "And I want to question Kolchak personally, as well."

"Do I get a phone call?" Carl asked, livid at being dragged away from the siren-mermaid and her song for the second time. _I was so close—so __close__!_

He paused. Now he realized he wasn't thinking straight, but he had more pressing matters on his mind.

Rausch gave Carl a derisive look.

"Whether or not you are granted permission for a phone call is fully dependent on how cooperative you are when I question you."

Carl narrowed his eyes, but said nothing as Spencer pulled him away. First the siren-mermaid disappeared again, and now this. Yesterday had not been his day, and it didn't look like today was much better.

* * *

><p>Tony Vincenzo now knew that something was up. Since parting ways the previous evening, Carl had made himself very scarce; he hadn't even shown up that morning at the INS, and Tony knew that whenever Carl was immersed in one of his odder stories, he always used his desk as a sort of home base to think. His absence confirmed what Tony had suspected; Carl had something to hide, and he was deliberately avoiding Tony. Well, Tony was going to get to the bottom of it.<p>

And he soon found an excuse to do some searching of his own. Miss Emily had finished up with her advice column early, and had asked him if there was anything else she could do for this week's edition of the paper. Tony was about to tell her not to bother, but then decided to let her in on the _Julius Caesar_ fiasco, and how he considerably doubted that Carl was going to get to it. Miss Emily smiled and said that she wouldn't mind reviewing the play at all, and Tony informed her that he had lent Carl the play and offered to go through Carl's desk to find it for her.

Searching through it, he paused as he noticed something tucked into a corner drawer—a business card for R. T. Wainwright, editor of the _Chicago Chronicle_.

"The _Chronicle_…?" Tony murmured aloud.

Of course, he knew all about the _Chicago Chronicle_. They were one of the city's most popular papers, and the crew at the INS considered them a snooty rival (and Tony didn't exactly think too much of Wainwright, either); it wasn't uncommon to see part of a page of the _Chronicle_ plastered over the dartboard in the office. So why did Carl have Wainwright's business card?

He soon found another clue under Wainwright's card—a slip of paper with an eyebrow-raising sum of money written on it, and the handwriting wasn't Carl's.

The editor looked from the card to the slip of paper repeatedly, thinking about how Carl was definitely hiding something from him, and he suddenly exhaled as he put two and two together.

"Mr. Vincenzo?"

Tony gave a start as Miss Emily looked at him questioningly.

"Oh, right," he said, handing her the play.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Vincenzo?" she asked, accepting it. "You have the same out-there look that Carl had yesterday."

"I do, huh?"

"Yes; I was leaving for my lunch break, and I saw him in the hall outside, just staring at the wall—only he wasn't really looking at it, if you know what I mean. His mind was elsewhere. And you looked just the same a moment ago."

Tony sighed.

"Guess we've both been working too hard," he said, quietly.

"Well, if you're sure that's all it is, then I think I'll head home and read up on this before I go see the play."

"Yeah, you do that," Tony said. "Ron's got the day off, and Carl's… Well, who knows where he is right now? At any rate, he's got a key if he desperately needs to come back here, so I think I'll lock up early and take the rest of the day off, too."

"Good for you!" Miss Emily said, as she headed out the door. "You've earned it, bless you! Everyone knows you do the most work around here! …And we all appreciate it!"

"Really?" Tony asked, quietly, after she was out of earshot. He stared at the business card and the slip of paper. "Sometimes I wonder…"

After collecting the two clues, it certainly didn't take a genius to figure out what Carl was trying to hide. Wainwright had obviously offered him a job at the _Chronicle_ (one with a very tempting salary, if the paper was any indication), and Carl did not want Tony to know about it. Why? Why was he being so secretive about it? Why hadn't Carl jumped at the chance to take it? Why was Carl still holding onto Wainwright's card?

And why did Tony feel as though he had just been stabbed in the back?

Tony immediately chided himself for thinking that; he knew that if _he_ ever had half a chance to jump the INS ship for something greater, he'd have done so in a heartbeat. And yet… he would've tried to take Carl with him. Hadn't Tony gotten Carl a job in Seattle—one that had ended with Carl getting them both out of work? Hadn't Tony managed to convince Abe Marmelstein to hire Carl, too, after managing to salvage the INS editorial position? Tony had done everything in his power to keep Carl employed, and if he had the chance to move up the ladder, he'd have done his very best to help Carl up, as well.

Well, it seemed that Carl now had an opportunity to move up the ladder on his own. And he didn't seem to have any plans to take anyone with him. Then again, did Tony really expect him to? Carl never had seemed to appreciate all that he had done for him; when Tony had accused him of being ungrateful back in Seattle, it wasn't unfounded. And Tony was feeling those very same sentiments again. Here he was, desperately trying to keep the both of them employed, and did Carl ever show him the slightest bit of gratitude for all of it? No, but, Tony realized that to keep them employed meant throwing out any and all of Carl's stories on the supernatural—something that vexed the reporter deeply. Was Carl that desperate to get his supernatural stories printed that it was worth more than everything that Tony had gone through to keep him employed?

It hurt more than Tony cared to admit, and yet he knew he couldn't hate Carl for it. But, still… Tony had to wonder… Would he have been this upset if he had found out that someone else, like Ron or Emily, had been offered the _Chronicle_ job instead of Carl?

_Of course not_, he said to himself. _I'd wish them good luck and let them go on their way without much more than a second thought. The fact that it's Carl is what complicates things, but that shouldn't even matter!_

Yes, it _shouldn't_ matter. But that didn't change the fact that it did—that it was personal when it shouldn't even be personal.

The editor shook his head, trying to clear these thoughts from his mind. He knew that any sane person would take a better job opportunity if it came along, and Carl would be utterly stupid not to take this job at the _Chronicle_. If Tony could help his hardheaded employee by being a stepping stone, well… maybe he should just accept that. And maybe Carl hadn't hidden this information to spite him after all, but to try to find a way to soften the eventual blow. Well, it was all but out in the open now; he would have to talk to Carl about it the next opportunity he had.

Tony decided to pocket the card and the slip of paper; they would probably come in handy when he spoke to Carl about it when he came back from… wherever it was. He had said last evening that he was going to the library in the morning, hadn't he? Or had that been a ruse to find time to go and see Wainwright about the job?

_Now I'm just paranoid about this_.

Deciding not to dwell on it until he saw Carl again, he decided to lock the place up and take the day off as he had planned. Also, a trip to the bar and a subsequent glass of 2% milk (if not something stronger, like whole milk) was in order. It looked as though today was promising to be a very long day indeed.

And it wasn't even noon yet.


	7. Pulls You Down on Your Knees

Carl Kolchak did not like the look on Rausch's face as he paced the room. The reporter was in a chair, his hands cuffed behind the back of the chair. It was most uncomfortable, and he knew it could only get worse from here.

"Now, Carl," Rausch said. "Let's not make this any more difficult than it already is. I want you to tell me everything you found out about these disappearances."

"You know what your problem is, Rausch?" Carl said, vowing not to cave in. "You don't do your job! Meanwhile, I'm busy with a thankless job! How did you ever get to be a captain, anyway?"

Rausch turned to him with an icy stare.

"I'm warning you, Carl; if you keep up with this insubordination, it's going to get even worse."

"What did you do?" Carl pressed on. "Bribe someone in a high place? Because you certainly wouldn't have secured this position on the basis of merit—"

SMACK.

Carl suppressed a curse as his face stung; Rausch had backhanded him.

"If we are through with personal insults, Carl—"

"Oh, we're far from through," the reporter said, a fire now kindling in his eyes. "I have nothing to tell you about the lake—nothing at all. But let's talk about my next article, shall we? How about an exposé of a certain captain—the story of how he managed to buy his way to his position, and the underhanded tactics he uses to stay there?"

SMACK.

"Ah, and a firsthand account of someone unfortunate to be a victim of said underhanded tactics," Carl said, both sides of his face stinging.

"Carl," Rausch said, his voice a quiet hiss. "The lake, Carl. What did you find out? If you're holding back information, that is a crime."

"You want to know what's a crime?" the reporter asked. "What you're doing right now."

Rausch now grabbed the reporter's chin and shoved him backwards; the chair tilted back, and stars filled Carl's vision as the back of his head hit the wall.

"You know, Rausch, knocking me senseless isn't going to help you in any way. Just throwing that out there…"

"Keep this up, Carl, and I swear…"

"The more you say and do, the longer my exposé will be," Carl said. He was not going to deliver any information to Rausch—not that he could if he wanted to; just as before, the details of the song and the face had rapidly left his conscious mind.

"I have Spencer and Sonntag waiting outside," Rausch said. "When I give the word, they'll be in here to… help with this interrogation."

"Oh, I can't wait," Carl said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I guess it'll make my article even better."

"Spencer! Sonntag!"

"Captain…" Spencer said, as he entered. "Captain, I think you ought to know—"

"Never mind that, Spencer!" Rausch said. "Mr. Kolchak doesn't find it necessary to divulge what he knows; it's up to us to convince him otherwise… Where is Sonntag?"

"He's in the lobby—trying to stall Mr. Vincenzo."

Both Carl's and Rausch's eyes widened at the news.

"What is he doing here?" Rausch demanded. "Who called him?"

"One of the sergeants at the desk," Spencer said. "She's seen Kolchak brought in so many times before, it's a knee-jerk reaction for her to call Vincenzo."

Rausch quickly let go of Carl, causing the chair to right itself again; the reporter winced, his head throbbing from having connected with the wall. He was barely aware of Tony's entrance.

"Mr. Vincenzo," Rausch greeted him. "I see you're as prompt as ever. We would appreciate it very much if you could convince your reporter not to wander into restricted areas; this is getting to be tiring for all of us involved."

But Tony wasn't listening; he glanced at Carl with first a searching expression, and then a scowl.

"What did you do to him?" the editor demanded, glaring at Rausch.

"I'm afraid I don't follow you, Mr. Vincenzo," Rausch said. "We didn't do a thing to your reporter—your most uncooperative reporter, I might add."

"Oh, yeah?" Tony asked. "Then why's his nose bleeding?"

Carl blinked, only now aware of it himself.

"Don't you know, Tony? It's the high altitude," he said, dryly. "Who knew that Chicago was so high above sea level?"

"Mr. Vincenzo," Rausch said, looking very discomfited. "Let me put your mind at ease; Carl was never in any danger. We were only trying to—"

"I can see what you were trying to do!" Tony bellowed. "It's very clear from where I'm standing! Here!"

He handed over the check to bail Carl out.

"Unlock him," the editor said.

"Mr. Vincenzo—"

"_Unlock him_!" Tony repeated. "And don't think that the police commissioner isn't going to hear about this, Rausch!"

"Aren't you blowing this a little bit out of proportion, Mr. Vincenzo?" Rausch asked. "Carl Kolchak is just a—"

"Carl Kolchak is still, for the moment, in my employ, and as long as he is, I'm not going to let someone like you get away with clobbering him senseless!" Tony now glared at Spencer. "You going to unlock him, or what?"

Spencer looked from Tony to Rausch, who looked absolutely blank.

"Very well, Spencer," Rausch said.

Spencer now unlocked the handcuffs around Carl's wrists.

"I don't suppose I could trouble you for a Kleenex?" the reporter asked, still wryly.

Spencer didn't say anything, prompting Carl to shrug and use his handkerchief to stop the bleeding.

"Let's get going," Tony said, guiding Carl out the door. "There's no reason to stay here any longer."

"Ah, and I'm only too eager to leave," the reporter said. He waited until they were out of the building before allowing a bit of humility to enter his voice. "Tony, your timing is almost impeccable."

"You alright, though?"

"I'll be fine; these bruises will be my battle scars while they last—proof of my stand against the tyrant who never actually does his own investigative work."

"We need to write an exposé on that guy," Tony said.

"Oh, I already promised him I would," Carl said. "That's partly why I got an extra bruise or two…"

The editor grunted, visibly upset with Rausch as he headed for his car. He had received the phone call just as he had been locking up the INS office and had headed directly to the police station. Furious as he was at Rausch, he still had been preoccupied by his discovery of Carl's _Chronicle_ job offer; seeing Carl again had reminded him of it all over again.

He looked back, seeing Carl just standing there, aimlessly.

"Where's your car?" Tony asked.

"Back at the lake," the reporter said, shrugging his shoulders.

Tony sighed, giving a resigned nod.

"Need a ride?"

Carl accepted, sighing as he relaxed in the passenger seat. The bleeding in his nose had finally stopped, and as he put the handkerchief away, he paused, recalling what Tony had said to Rausch only moments ago.

"Tony…?" he asked. "You told Rausch that I'm still in your employ 'for the moment'—what did you mean by that?"

Tony now froze; he had been so upset with Rausch that he had made that reference to the _Chronicle_ offer.

"I gave Miss Emily your _Julius Caesar_ assignment," the editor said. "I went through your desk to get the play so I could give it to her, and I found the business card you got from Wainwright at the _Chronicle_. A piece of paper with an impressive sum of money was in there, too; it didn't take too long to put two and two together."

Carl winced again.

"Naturally, I assumed you can't wait to get away from the INS, which is why that 'for the moment' slipped in there," Tony continued.

"Well…" Carl said, fully realizing the awkwardness of the situation. "Tony, I wasn't trying to hide this from you, if that's what you're wondering. I only got this job offer yesterday; I met one of Wainwright's staff at the lake yesterday, and he kept tabs on me reporting to him. I met with him yesterday, too."

"…How's the _Chronicle_? The building, I mean."

"New. Well, it sure looks new," Carl said. "Not like the mildew-y walls we've got. Oh, and the lighting is nice."

"I'll bet," Tony said, unable to hide the traces of disgust in his voice.

Carl wasn't sure exactly what Tony was disgusted about—the state of the INS building or the offer itself, perhaps even both— but decided to continue.

"Wainwright and I got to talking, and that's where the details about the job offer turned up. He took great interest in the stories that I wrote—the ones that you kept throwing out."

"How did he read them?" Tony asked, frowning. "I threw them all out!"

"Let's just say, Tony, that you might want to consider investing in a paper shredder."

"You mean Wainwright was dumpster-diving for your stories?" Tony asked.

"Well not him personally, but he had someone get my stories that way," Carl asked. "Apparently, he read my original article on the Pioneer Square murders, and when he later discovered that I was here in Chicago, he sought out the stories I wrote that you threw away. He even offered to buy this story I'm doing on the lake disappearances if you don't want to print it. But, by his choice, I'd be working for him, writing him stuff like this all the time. I was going to tell you about it, Tony, but it's not easy… I mean, what was I supposed to do—walk into your office and say, 'Sorry, Tony, but I have another editor in my life'?"

"So is that why you're still chasing that lake disappearance story?" Tony asked. "You're going to sell it to him?"

"Actually, that wasn't part of the plan; I'm trying to figure this out for myself. If there really are siren-mermaid hybrids in that lake, no man who goes out there will be safe."

"I don't know about the hybrids part, but it is strange that all the men who've disappeared are middle-aged," Tony said. "Sounds more like an organized vendetta than mermaids at work, if you ask me."

Carl blinked.

"Say that again."

"What? That it sounds more like an organized vendetta?"

"No, before that."

"All the men who've disappeared are middle-aged?"

"That's it," Carl said, sitting up. "That is it! Tony, you've just found the link between those fishermen and that yachter! That yachter—Quint—was in his mid-fifties! They're going after middle-aged men! And that also explains why I nearly fell for…"

The reporter trailed off, and Tony frowned, though he kept his eyes on the road.

"What are you talking about?" the editor asked.

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you," Carl sighed.

"And Wainwright would?"

"Apparently, he would, if he knew what I was trying to uncover here," Carl said. "I haven't told him yet about anything I've found out. In fact, I haven't even told him if I'm taking the job he offered or not. All he knows is that I don't mind getting into trouble with Rausch, no matter what he threatens."

"Great; then when you take that job, _he_ can be the one to bail you out time and again," Tony said.

Carl didn't reply; in fact, he stared blankly out the window for a moment.

"Well, I don't know if I will be taking it, Tony. That's what I told Wainwright," he said at last. "But I am considering it."

Tony responded with a nod, staring straight ahead at the road.

"Well," the editor said, sounding a little brusquer than he had intended. "Just give me your notice if you do decide to take that Chronicle job."

"Yeah, I'll do that," Carl said.

They both lapsed into silence until Tony realized that he didn't know where he was supposed to take Carl.

"Where are you headed?" he asked. "To the lake to pick up your own car?"

"There's no time for that, Tony; I have to solve this lake case before anyone else disappears!" Carl exclaimed, pulling the business card he had received from the antique shop the previous night. "I need to meet a Mr. Giovanni." He gave Tony the address.

"And who is he? Is he involved in these disappearances somehow?"

"I don't know, but I'm hoping I can get some answers today," Carl said. "It's very strange, Tony. Usually, when I'm on the trail of one of these stories, I'm all there, but… Well, today is the second time I spaced out while trying to get some evidence, just like yesterday."

"Carl, I don't know what to tell you," Tony said. "Other than this: be careful."

"I will," Carl promised, not sure how well he could keep that promise.

It hadn't escaped his mind that he was in the same age range as the siren-mermaids' victims. He knew all too well that he could be next.


	8. Gone to the Other Side

_Behold, the fic lives! With only a few chapters left, it would be a shame to leave it unfinished—two more chapters after this! Also, the Giovanni and Archer in this chapter may or may not be the same ones from the _Pokémon_-verse (meaning that the cat may or may not be Persian). I do have a future idea for a _Pokémon_/_Kolchak_ crossover, so it is likely them (and yes, I do have an explanation as to why they are in Chicago, which will be addressed in said crossover, and their appearance in Chicago takes place well after the events in _HeartGold_/_SoulSilver_)._

* * *

><p><em>Tony had dropped me off at Mr. Giovanni's estate as I requested. He kept his expression completely neutral as he drove away, but I could tell that he was upset about the idea of my getting a job up at the <em>Chronicle_. Well, I guess that's irony for you; you could take a look at the two of us arguing and think that he couldn't wait for the chance to be rid of me… just like I always thought it'd be a no brainer to grab any chance to leave the INS for a most prestigious paper._

_There was more to it than that, but I didn't have time to think about it; my main concern was preventing anymore lake disappearances. And I would hopefully find the answers I needed here_.

The attendant gave Carl a very condescending look when he opened the door to see him standing there.

"Ah, hello, I'd like to talk to Mr. Giovanni?" the reporter said.

"I'm sure you do," the attendant said. "But I am afraid that Mr. Giovanni is packing his bags; he will be leaving this place very soon, and does not have the time or the disposition to meet with anyone."

Carl Kolchak, of course, was not about to give up so easily.

"Actually, there is something I need to discuss with him; something about a rumor concerning a beautiful lady—"

"If you don't leave this instant, I will make you leave," the man said. "This is private property."

"—A lady in Lake Michigan."

"Sir, I told you—"

"Let him in, Archer,"

"Sir?"

Carl blinked as he saw a man in a black three-piece suit approaching the door—undoubtedly drawn by the arguing.

"You heard me," the man said. "Let him in."

Carl cast the attendant a smug look (who returned his look with a stony glare) and greeted the man inside.

"Mr. Giovanni, I presume?"

"You clearly know who I am already," the man said, leading him to a study. "And you also know of the problem going on nearby in Lake Michigan. How did you find a way to link that to me?"

"I saw the Eight Instruments of the Sirens in an antique shop downtown—your generous donation, I believe?" Carl said.

He attempted to sit down in a chair, but jumped up almost immediately as an annoyed white cat in the chair hissed at him.

"I am reaching the age of my retirement, Mr.…"

"Kolchak—Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service."

Giovanni gave Carl a searching look, most unimpressed by the newspaperman in front of him.

"Kolchak? The name is not familiar to me, but never mind that. As I was saying, I have amassed enough wealth during my years as a collector that I see fit to start giving it away. You can't take it with you, after all."

_True, but I've seen some very determined ones try to come back_ _to get it_, Carl thought to himself.

"I fail to see how that links me to whatever it is that is occurring at the lake," Giovani continued.

"Because, Mr. Giovanni, I happened to take a gander at one of those 'whatevers' in the lake, and she was most certainly some sort of mermaid—a singing one at that—just when these Eight Instruments turned up in Chicago!"

"You mean to tell me that a grown man such as yourself believes in mermaids?" Giovanni scoffed. But beads of sweat appearing on his forehead; he was clearly feigning this disbelief.

"Middle-aged men are disappearing thanks to these things. If you have any idea of what's going on and how it's linked to those instruments, then you need to tell someone before the said demographic completely vanishes from the Lake Michigan area—a demographic which, I might add, we both belong to!"

Giovanni suddenly crossed to the study's double doors and closed them, locking them, as well.

"What I am about to tell you is under the condition that you will not put my name into your story under any circumstances, Mr. Kolchak. If you disagree, you may leave now without your story. Should you agree and then later break your promise, I will use one of many ways to ensure that you will regret it."

Carl gave a nod, unflinchingly. He had been threatened so many times before, it really was nothing new to him.

Giovanni was satisfied.

"You said that you saw eight instruments in the antique shop," the man said. "You will not be surprised, then, when I tell you that there are exactly eight siren-mermaids—each of them eternally bound to one of the instruments."

"Why on Earth did you bring them to Chicago?"

"Because, Mr. Kolchak, those siren-mermaids would not leave me alone from the moment I acquired those wretched instruments—Heaven knows I did my best to get rid of them!" Giovanni exclaimed. "Some associates of mine found them while they were excavating—they were younger, much younger than I was, so they did not hear the voices singing or see the faces in the water nearby. I assumed them to be antiques, and… requested that my associates give them to me. They complied."

Carl had a feeling that those associates didn't have much of a choice in that matter, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

"You mean to tell me that even though your associates didn't hear or see them… you did?" Carl prompted.

Giovanni covered his face with his hand.

"From my swimming pool," he said. "All night long, singing that same song over and over again—_O, ye who dwells upon the land…_"

"And so you brought the Instruments here to get rid of them? You couldn't have gotten rid of them anywhere else?"

"No; I didn't link the siren-mermaids to the Instruments at first… I store several of my art treasures here, and if it meant getting away from my main estate and the siren-mermaids in the pool, a trip here to store the Instruments would not be a bad idea. And then they turned up in Lake Michigan."

"So you generously donated the instruments to the antique shop," Carl finished. "Without asking so much as a dime for them…"

"And now they are no longer my problem," Giovanni agreed. "And that is all you need to know from me, I presume?"

"Almost," the reporter said. "I'm still stumped on why only middle-aged men are being affected by their song."

"I did a little bit of research, but found nothing, except for this," the man replied, handing him a few photocopied pages. "It makes no sense and talks about places and people that are completely unmentioned anywhere else."

Carl glanced over them, eyebrows arched as he came across the unfamiliar names.

"What's the gist of it?" he asked.

"In some land named Labrynna, eight siren-mermaids lived in a luxuriously furnished cavern for many years, each in possession of a magical instrument. Gentlemen came to call on them; regular men, whose rate of aging—our rate, if you will—was faster than the rate of the siren-mermaids. Regardless, the siren-mermaids held their gentlemen callers in very high regard—as they did the siren-mermaids," Giovanni said. "One day, though, everything changed. A Sorceress invaded Labrynna, taking over the cave."

"I guess the siren-mermaids objected to that…"

"Most strongly," the man agreed. "They put up a valiant fight, but it was to no avail; the sorceress—Veran, they called her—cursed them all, binding their spirits to their Instruments in such a way that they would be forced to follow them—and their curse could only be broken by their instruments being returned to them."

"And the middle-aged men?"

"They died of natural causes, but the siren-mermaids, forced to remain in this world, pined for them…"

"…And they're attempting to fill the void by getting middle-aged men living here to come to them," Carl finished. "But what was that you said about the curse being broken by their instruments being returned to them?"

"Exactly what it says," Giovanni said.

"Then why didn't you just throw the Instruments to them when you figured it out?" Carl asked, flabbergasted. "I would've thought that would've been the easiest solution—solve everyone's problems!"

"That's the thing about the curse," the man said. "They are pining so much for their lost loves, they do not show themselves to anyone else other than middle-aged men—and the moment they do, they start singing. It is impossible for a man to have coherent thoughts when they hear them sing—they cannot consciously bring themselves to hand over the instruments because they are so focused on the song."

"…You mean, you tried it?"

"If it hadn't been for Archer snapping me out of the trance at the last second, I would've been another statistic."

Carl sighed. Of course, nothing could ever be that easy—that always seemed to be his luck.

"Why would those underwater ladies ruin their own chances of breaking the curse?" he asked.

"Well, it would stand to reason that they don't know how to break the curse upon them; they're just desperately trying to fill that lost void, as you said," Giovanni said, pouring a glass of scotch for himself. "This sorceress Veran, whoever she was, would've been unlikely to tell them all the details."

He pulled another glass from the cabinet and held it out, offering the reporter a drink, as well.

"On the rocks," Carl said, nodding, and Giovanni complied, fixing the drink as he requested.

They drank in silence, which was interrupted only by the white cat murowring, demanding attention.

"Now that I've answered your questions, Mr. Kolchak, perhaps you can answer one of mine," Giovanni said, obligingly giving the cat an obligatory scratch behind the ears. "Why do you take such interest in these siren-mermaids? Were any of the victims friends or family of yours? Or is it simply worth trying to get a story for your paper when you know the risks of going near them?"

"I never knew any of the victims—never even heard of them. And it's not about the story," Carl said. "Ten to one, my editor wouldn't even publish it at all. I'm just trying to stop this from going any further."

"Newspapermen report the news; they don't make the news," Giovanni said. "I've had my fill of _young_ wide-eyed idealists running around, thinking they can change the world. And you are a grown man."

"Look, just because you've washed your hands of this whole thing doesn't mean that I have," Carl shot back. "Even you tried to get rid of them—though I'll guess that was more to get them off your back, wasn't it?"

"I don't deny it," Giovanni said. "Very well, Mr. Kolchak. Go on chasing your story. But I am not responsible for what happens to you—I have warned you, and you are aware of the risks."

"Yeah, those risks, and the risks of ever bringing your name into this," Carl said, waving his hand in dismissal as he placed the empty glass back on Giovanni's desk. "Well, I guess I'll be off—"

"One last thing, Mr. Kolchak."

"Yes…?"

"Your tape recorder's tape, if you please. Don't insult my intelligence by thinking that I didn't notice you using it."

He snapped his fingers, and Archer opened the doors, blocking Carl's exit; now it was his turn to look smug. Carl scowled, but handed the tape to Giovanni, who pulled a powerful magnet from his desk, placed it against the tape for a moment, and then handed the wiped tape back to him.

"Next time, Mr. Kolchak, go digital."

"You'd have found some other way to delete it."

"Indeed. Give my best regards to the young lady at the antique shop; I assume you'll be heading there next, after all. Oh, and feel free to keep those photocopied pages; I certainly have no more use for them."

Giovanni and Archer both smirked. Even the white cat seemed to be snarking at the reporter.

Carl just grumbled as he placed the now-blank tape back into the recorder and left without another word.

Well, he lost the narrative from Giovanni, but had gained some valuable information, at any rate. Now, it was time to put that information to use and put a stop to the siren-mermaids' song—before it was too late.


End file.
